Spray Foam

We were standing in the smoking area. Vadik - our executive director - suddenly fired a phrase at me:

- You handled the suppliers brilliantly, old man. You’ve got a bulldog’s grip.

A second of silence.

This was the waltz of social stroking. In that second I was supposed to say “thank you” or crack a joke.

But I suddenly saw what was really happening.

Vadik wasn’t praising me. He didn’t give a damn about my grip, the suppliers, or bulldogs. In that moment Vadik was creating himself. He was sculpting himself into a generous, observant leader, a “father to his troops,” handing out medals. I was just a mannequin on which he was pinning a decoration so he could admire how it glinted in the sun. He was practicing self-admiration, using my ears.

And what was happening to me?

Oh, this is the most disgusting part.

Inside me, somewhere around my solar plexus, a canister of spray foam hissed. That same yellow, sticky stuff they use to seal cracks in cheap renovations.

“Bulldog’s grip!” shrieked my inner void.

“Yes! I’m a bulldog! Woof-woof! Look at me, I’m dangerous, I’m competent!”

The foam came bursting out of every crack. It instantly filled the hole where a minute ago the doubt “am I not a piece of shit?” had been aching. It expanded my ribcage. I started feeling solid. Significant.

I am a Bulldog.

It was a pure narcotic high. Cheap dopamine.

I knew Vadik was an idiot. I knew the situation with the suppliers had resolved itself. I knew I wasn’t any kind of bulldog, just a tired guy who wanted to go home.

But I was devouring this foam. I was gulping it down in chunks, chomping away.

Because without it I’m a sieve. Drafts blowing through. But here - bang! - and you’re a monument.

I stood there, looking at Vadik, and we both knew it.

We were two vampires sucking on each other.

He was drinking my submission and gratitude (“Oh, great Vadik noticed me!”).

I was drinking his fake approval to plug the hole in my self-esteem.

- Doing our best, I muttered.

Vadik nodded with satisfaction. He got his fix. I got mine.

The spray foam began to harden, turning into ugly yellow lumps. Tomorrow it will dry out and fall off in chunks, and I’ll be empty again, and I’ll need to find someone else to spray me from a canister.

I stubbed out my cigarette.

- Nice tie, by the way, I said.

Vadik beamed.

Hiss.

We went back to work. Two inflated rubber products in an ocean of entropy.